


Veins

by schwertlilie



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Study, Crack Treated Seriously, Dendrophilia, Nations are not human, Other, Paraphilias
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 09:49:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3565217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schwertlilie/pseuds/schwertlilie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's more to Matthew than skin and flesh: he is made of rivers, and soil, and everything that grows upon his land. Why would his desires be limited to the human form?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Veins

All of the nations had their quirks - Kiku had his 2-D idols, Elizabeta her gay porn industry, Alfred his technology.

Matthew's was maple trees.

He didn't know when it started - maybe while he was Arthur's colony. Maybe before he met Francis, when he played in the forests while his colonists carved out a city. As he grew, his appreciation for the way well-smoothed wood warmed to his hand shifted to something.. else.

Not that he disliked his human-shape, or the things he could do with it. (Or the _people_ he could do with it.) He quite enjoyed sex, thank you very much, all the ways he could touch and grab and hold, be touched in return. But being able to hold onto his carved headboard or lap syrup from his partner's mouth made it _better_.

Black, silver, vine, best of all sugar maples, he loved them all. He loved the wood, with its delicate patterns of whorls and flames. The sap, its sweetness. The bark, the way it roughened as it grew, going from smooth to creviced; and the way his fingertips could dig into the gaps, the outermost layer of bark crumbling against his skin. The way the branches reached to the sky; how the leaves' toothed edges skimmed across his arm; the taste of the seeds, roasted and ground into a drink almost like coffee.

No one batted an eye when he planted seedlings in his yard (for shade), or at his any-season camping trips (so much land to visit). And if one of his lovers wanted to come along, well, it was easy enough to sandwich himself between their body and a sturdy tree.

(Last summer Gilbert had fucked him into a red maple; Matthew had been picking lichen out of his hair for weeks, but it was worth it.)

He loved his country all seasons of the year, and he loved his maples too. In the winter he used deadfall to heat his house, lay in front of his fireplace and let the warmth wash over him.

In spring he visited the plot of land he owned in rural Quebec, and the small sugar shack he kept there. He was the only worker, so the syrup yield was small, but it was his, treasured through the rest of the year. On warm days he would run his fingers over the young trunks, feeling the trees wake up around him. Feel the tiniest ripples in the bark under his tongue, the contrast between the melting ice and the living trunk almost too much to process.

Summer was the time for sheltering under the canopy, away from the sun and light rain. Maple seeds would spin lazily downward as the wind rustled the green leaves, played with Matthew's hair as he thrust against the tree trunk. (Never without jeans, not since that time in '23. The buttons were a small price to pay to make sure his human-body stayed whole.) His shirt and glasses hung carefully over a branch while the sunlight dappled against his back, the rough bark scratching against his chest. His hands out at waist height, anchoring him to the maple. There would be grit on his lips as he buried his nose against the tree, breathed in the sweet smell that he liked better than all the pines and firs and spruces of the world. Breathed in its warmth and sheer _aliveness_.

But autumn... Autumn was his favourite. He took two weeks to travel around his country, planned his trip so he'd be surrounded by the fall colours everywhere he went. After the first good, hard frost Matthew could wander the woods at will, the biting insects killed by the cold. If he was feeling decadent he'd take his time, collect a leaf of every colour - red, orange, yellow, green. Maybe from the same tree, maybe not. Then he'd find the perfect maple, nestle his back against it. Unbutton his jeans and take out his cock and balls, wrap the leaves around his shaft. (If he'd plucked the leaves just right, sap would moisten his skin, ease those first few strokes until the leaves warmed and softened in his hand.) Surrounded by the scent of fallen leaves he'd tip his head back. Watch the sunlight through the leaves while he rolled his balls in his palm.

He'd try to go slow, he always _tried_. But cradled between the tree's roots, his hair tangled in the bark, his hips would jerk, add that twist of the leaves against the head of his cock. The veins of the leaves would press against his skin - the dagged edges teasing over and under his foreskin, across the top of his ball sac - until he gave in, tightened his grip and stroked himself to completion.

The next day he'd start again - a different forest, a different tree. In winter he'd warm himself to another cord of deadfall, and in spring his seedlings would wake up and grow. A little bit of constancy while his bosses walked into and out of office, his dollar bounced around against Alfred's, and popular musicians faded into obscurity.

 

All nations had their quirks, and Matthew was content with his.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted at the [Hetalia Kink Meme](http://hetalia-kink.dreamwidth.org/75098.html?thread=459561562#cmt459561562), July 2010.
> 
> Yes, I do indeed take cracky premises as a personal challenge. :)


End file.
